


more than you bargained for yet

by garden of succulents (staranise)



Series: better than you found them [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: BDSM, Bratting, Community: omgsexplease, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fat Female Character Having Sex, Impact Play, Men Crying, Mention of Consent Play, Sex Scene In Which There Is No Male Orgasm, bisexuals in a heterosexual relationship, community:omgcpwomenfest, domestic bdsm, laughing during sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 22:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/garden%20of%20succulents
Summary: She's having a bad week. He knows he's being a brat, knows that he wants her to be angry at him so that he can be the one to make it better.And in any other relationship, that would spell disaster.





	more than you bargained for yet

Andy has some anger to work out.

She's been quiet and edgy all week, and Kent knows, logically, it's not about him. She's told him what's stressing her out in short, clipped sentences. Work—and her mother just lost her lease in St Paul—and she's having conflict with the parents of one of her players—and the news—and _everything_. Not about him. But the grumpy way she stabs at reheated broccoli in her tupperware stabs at _him_ and he's taking deep breaths and reminding himself that it's not about him when he frankly admits to himself that he wishes it _was_ about him so he could at least make it better.

Which, actually. Gives him an idea.

So he's doing it on purpose, when he stops giving his best Attentive performance, leaning against the kitchen island while she eats leaning against the counter. Her eyes narrow at him slightly when he turns away, wiping absently at the countertop. They both know what he's offering when he leans into her halfhearted answer about work today, kisses the side of her mouth, then turns away to the sink to wash his hands.

“Hey!” She delivers a stinging swat to his backside. “Come back here and kiss me properly.”

He slouches around and gives her his best pout. Not doing it when she tells him to is a clear invitation: _Make me._

She sniffs critically at him, then reaches up with both hands, takes a grip on his chin and a handful of hair and pulls him down. She makes good use of his mouth this time.

“Good,” she says when she pulls away. He lets out a shaky breath, feeling her proximity even with his eyes closed eyes, darting his tongue out to press the place she bit his lip.

“Y’know,” he says, striving for nonchalance, breathing into the space between them. “Whatever.”

She pushes his face away with an open palm and a huff of laughter. “ _Whatever?_ ” she echoes. "That was a _whatever?_ " Kent has to bring his hands to guard his face while she pulls a kitchen towel off the oven door and begins swatting him with it. "Excuse me! That was excellent!"

He moves forward, into the towel's storm, where she's laughing and trying to hit him with it, and fends off attempts or gets the towel on his face until he's close enough to wrap his arms around her. "There, there," he soothes mockingly. "It was okay."

" _It_ was okay?" He tightens his arm when she turns, which he has to, because she hip-checks him, gets him to actually skid a step back in socks on the tiled floor, and squeezes one arm out of the circle around her.

She's grinning. They're wrestling, each trying to gain advantage, her aiming to destabilize his feet and get him down in a headlock. He tries lifting her off his feet, but her centre of gravity is too low, and when he's busy with that she gets a fist on the back of his shirt and pulls it up, jerseying him and leaving him blind. "Ha!" she huffs triumphantly.

Rather than pull it back down while she’s trying to pull one leg out from under him, Kent ditches the shirt over his head while she's changing her grip. He can use the distance that move grants him to go after her again, coming in low for her torso when she turns around to face him. She shrieks as he hoists her over his shoulder, raining blows down on his butt and lower back. He ignores it, moving the twenty feet to the bedroom before he has to put her down.

The toss that makes her bounce onto the bed and disgruntles the cat looks like he did it for dramatic effect, not because his hold was slipping. Then he picks the cat up off the coverlet, pressing her firmly to his shoulder in much the same way.

“Purrs,” he croons. “Kitty cat. Light of my life. Go get lost.” He dumps her out onto the living room carpet and shuts the bedroom door swiftly before she can get back in.

On the bed, Andy had unbuttoned her blouse, shed her skirt, peeled off her pantyhose and underwear. She reaches up nonchalantly to pull hair out of her face.

“You know,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and subtly sucking in his gut to show his abs off to best advantage. “I could also be good at … stuff.”

She snorts good-naturedly. “You aren’t even in my league.”

That … stings a little, in ways he doesn’t totally want to acknowledge right now. He sticks out his bottom lip, letting his eyelids droop. She raises her eyebrows, unmoved, as he shuffles forward. They stay like that, in a standoff where he won’t beg and she won’t bend, until he gets close enough to tackle her, bear her sideways onto the bed, and blow a raspberry into her neck.

“Jesus fuck!” she says, kicking ineffectually. She tries to reach back and tickle his sides, but he fends her wrists off. “Do you need an attitude adjustment?”

“Maybe,” he admits into the tumble of her hair.

She takes one of his hands, wrapped around one of hers, and bites to the base of its thumb, hard and firm. It’s not reward, just acknowledgement. “Then go get me a switch,” she directs him.

He tightens his arm around her, burrowing into her heat against the AC. “Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t _wanna_?” she says, incredulous, a hint of that coach voice that says: _Do you want to reconsider how dumb that sounded?_

He … gets to consider letting her force him. It’s an option and he’d like it, maybe it’s what she wants, but …

“Don’t wanna,” he whines against her head, the way he does when they’re doing weights in the summer and she has to chivvy him through the last of a punishing set. “It’s too hard, Andy. It’s too _hard_.”

“Baby,” she says soothingly, bringing a hand up to cup his head and he knows she’ll see him through it. “Can you kneel for me?”

He keeps a hand on her body as he moves sideways, slides his legs off the bed; she shifts closer to him and puts down her feet for him to kneel at, as he wraps his arms around her thighs and puts his head into her lap.

Kneeling for her feels … right, and it’s a relief for him that she asked him to. It’s not like he could just come home and slide into it, offer it unsolicited. The very thought of it makes him squirm with shame and discomfort. He’s only able to do this if he thinks _Andy wants to_. Because she does; she gets a charge and a thrill out of being obeyed.

“Wanted to do something for you,” he mutters into her stomach. “Kinda stole your show.”

“’Course not,” she says placidly, caressing his skull softly with her nails. “I’m still in charge. I’m just figuring out the best way to use you.”

He groans, burrowing his face into her. Heat goes through him at her calm assertion of superiority. “Wanna be good for you,” he offers softly.

“Yeah?” She can make him turn his face the way a sunflower follows the sun, caressing his ear and temple so he presents eyebrow and cheekbone, tracks her fingers lightly over his eyelids, the side of his nose.

He basks in the attention, and when they come close, he reaches for those fingers with a watering mouth, kissing them and letting them slip inside. “Maybe I should ride your face, baby.”

He groans agreement and curls his tongue.

How is she so good at knowing him? He kind of has a guess, because sometimes she spells it out for him – maybe a lack of tension in his face, responsiveness to her touch. But part of it’s just _Andy_ , magic and intuition and no lack of hesitation anymore for using him for everything he’s worth. (And _wanting_ to, which still feels like … it’s own kind of miracle.)

At her own direction, he lies down on the bed after folding back the coverlet. She strips out of skirt, of panties, of blouse. He loves the shape of her, the curves, the folds of flesh at her waist, like even her skin has definitely decided where it’s going to be; the softness of her stomach inviting his gaze down to between her thighs.

(He also loves, with a distracted proprietary thrill, that she is naked except for her bra but still wearing a necklace he gave her. Was wearing it earlier; has been wearing it all day. And like, he knows the publicity hasn’t always been great for her, but he loves that people look at her and see _Kent Parson’s girlfriend_ , who Kent Parson loves. He loves that they all know. It would have been nice if he could have been as open about – but there, he has better things to think about right now.)

Andy sits next to his shoulder, one arm pressed into the mattress and eyeing him critically. She takes his jaw in her other hand, tilting his head back and forth judiciously, and Kent hopes it meets her approval as she brushes her thumb over his parted lips.

“Restraints?” she asks. He considers, then shakes his head.

His eyes are open, arms ready to receive her, as she swings a leg over his far shoulder. It's implicit in the position, as she settles over him, that she has an enormous amount of strength to be doing this; she has a core of solid steel, can easily lift twice his weight in a squat, is holding herself up over him without support or tremor. But all he feels is softness, warm flesh that fills his hands, soft wetness he presses his mouth to; he doesn't have to _worry_ about what position she's in, because she's strong enough to decide every fraction of an inch just where she wants to be.

And when he's licking at her, head between her legs, she makes a tiny breathy noise and touches his hair. It feels like the best thing ever.

It feels like doing something _right,_ as he cranes his neck, fills his mouth with her and still tries to breathe, pushing himself to be good and _doing_ it. It feels like something he doesn't deserve, her opening up and letting him in, holding his head and pressing him closer. And he forces himself to keep his hands light, to run them over her body, to let her choose a rhythm herself, instead of clutching her like he wants to do. It feels like a skills competition, like a test to prove himself, like his lips and tongue are saying, over and over, _I love you. I love you. Don't leave me._

When she finally sobs she has to touch the wall for support, lest she fall over. He kisses her one last time before she goes.

"Mkay," she says, flopping down next to him. "Yeah."

He rolls over to her, leans into that, high praise for her in this state. "Yeah?" he murmurs, nuzzling her neck, the sweet soft underside of her chin, her earlobe.

"Yeah," she whispers, briefly taking a handful of his hair like a promise. "Yeah."

He couldn't go for the punishment earlier, he thinks, because he didn't feel sure that she really loved him; it was a distant knowing, clouded over by the week they'd had. He'd needed proof. He'd needed to see her like this, fond and pliant, out of words but her lips parted to let affection through. He'd needed to be certain he could still please her.

Damn. Sometimes he's even good at this.

So then he can crawl off the bed, shuck all his clothes and go rummage through the dresser. She's tousled and lounging and like a dream when he comes back with the cane, and he has to stop with one knee on the bed and kiss her, just because.

Then he passes the cane over and goes to kneel on his side of the bed, hands against the wall. Braced. "Ready?" she asks, running it lightly over the backs of his thighs.

"Yeah," he says, then, "Ow, wait." She pauses while he bends down, rummaging under the pillow he hadn't bothered to get out of the way, just shuffled closer to the headboard.

This is their life: The dog has left a half-chewed nylon bone under his pillow. The gnawed bits are sharp, uncomfortable to kneel on. It's possible Cummerbund thought he was leaving Kent a present.

Andy takes the bone out of his hand and tosses it over her shoulder somewhere. He moves the pillow. Then he's ready, and she's gauging again, and the first slap of wood against his ass makes him drop his head and round his shoulders out.

In a way it's a good thing he plays hockey because he's kind of a masochist, and if he _needs_ pain sometimes, the game is always happy to provide. He and Andy and other lovers over the past few years figured this, the rest of it, out. How to do it on purpose, before he explodes. The slow way, through trial and error. It's still strange and new to have this need and have it _filled_ , and feel good after. To go through the grinding itch of pain, and not _enough_ , to the moment when the blows land sharp and bright and clear.

"God, please," he says, breaking and ready to beg. "More, please." So she lands three, clean and hard, and he sobs, sucks air back in over his teeth. Grits them when she rubs his ass and legs, soothing the bright red marks, and straightens, holds steady, when she hits him again.

Maybe she wasn't angry at him, but even if she _was_ , she can get it out of her arm, and surely he's paying for it anyway. He's obedient to her as he can be, leaning into her hands, moving tear-blind to lay across her lap, and she gives him a pillow to press his face against. It soaks up his tears.

"Don't be mad at me, Andy," he's saying. "I love you. I'm sorry. Don't be mad."

"Shh," she says, fingers gentle in his hair. She's rubbing Tiger Balm over his ass and legs; he can smell it on her other hand before the stinging of evaporating menthol on his backside hits him. "Oh, baby. I'm not mad. It's okay. I gotcha."

After a minute of soaking it in, letting the pillow soak his face dry, he says, "I know."

"I know," she agrees. "Just—you know— _thing_."

 _Thing._ He worries sometimes. It's hard to explain. He isn't like her; it doesn't matter _who_ anger is pointed at. He hates being around it anyway, because it's so hard not to soak up. Sometimes he feels skinless, too open to everybody, liable to have his day wrecked by two guys not-speaking on the other end of the plane.

She takes off her bra and lies down, finally, and he wraps his arms around her. She holds him close.

"Hey," she whispers in his ear. "Who do I love the most?"

His cheeks heat under the force of a question he's compelled to answer. "Me," he answers, feeling embarrassed.

She hums agreement, kissing the bridge of his nose. (It's more accessible.) "I love you. Who's my favourite?"

She does it because sometimes he doesn't _hear,_ when she says it outright. It's like the words come across, but they don't register. But it's not even a question for him anymore. He knows, unbelievably, what the answer is. "Me. I'm your favourite."

"Like you more than anybody else," she agrees sleepily.

"I could stay with you forever," he says.

Okay, that's not fair. He knows that's not fair. Yes, he _can_ claim that he means right now, on this bed, but he... didn't really. And Andy doesn't do "forever"; it's not a concept that makes sense for her, and promises to stay make her feel trapped. She's seen too many people trapped together long after love ran cold. He can't keep pushing at her. So he's about to take it back, but—

She wraps her arms around him tighter. "I've got no plans to move," she says.


End file.
